Stacie Cassarino’s poems have appeared in The Georgia Review, Iowa Review, Indiana Review, Massachusetts Review, American Letters & Commentary, and elsewhere. Her manuscript, Goldfish Are Ordinary, has repeatedly been a finalist for publication. She is currently teaching at Middlebury College in Vermont. Brooklyn Morning Stacie Cassarino There’s no one who could be everything for me. That’s what I tell you walking up Seventh, and I think it sounds good. The flea-market has just opened. You hold up a mirror for fifteen dollars, and I see cheekbones and clouds. I see you sad. And then gone. In traffic, I check my face. In windows I remember what my body looks like, and it is filled with shoes, then dishware, then locals sitting at wooden tables. They are hungry. Once, in a town called Rising Star, I bought a bag of Fritos just to use the toilet. The man selling corndogs had no teeth. He told me to take a right at the light, then drive like hell. Sometimes, talking with you, I want to sell everything I own. Across the street, women get their hair done. A father holds his baby like a newspaper. It is Sunday again, and everything is for sale. A statue of Mary. A winter coat with a fur neck. Christmas bulbs. Upstate, the leaves are turning. Someone is building a wall. Someday it will become a house. People will love in those rooms but never tell each other. What’s the happiest you’ve ever been? you ask. I look around and I am a tree. The sky is falling with birds. The street has turned into a river. You are thankful your body is a boat.